Twelfth Night, or What You Will
by Cryptic Nymph
Summary: A Shakespeare-Sherlock adaptation. T for infrequent language, some Sherlock OOC moments, just a bit of fun for when I'm supposed to be revising. I don't own Twelfth Night or Sherlock  or there'd be much more Sherlock/John love...
1. Act 1

**This is just a little story for the times when I'm supposed to be revising… I'm going to fail my Maths exam anyway, but I can't really concentrate on a serious plot when there's a Maths revision guide staring at me. I thought of this idea whilst watching The Great Game, and figured, why not? A little adaptation of Twelfth Night for you. Enjoy!**

**WARNING- THIS FIC CONTAINS SHERLOCK OOC BEHAVIOUR, ANDERSON AND A HELL OF A LOT OF UNREQUITED LOVE**** (PARTICULARLY FOR LESTRADE).**

**Scene 1**

"John, you've got to get out of this flat."

"I can't, you know that." John replied flatly. Harry glared at him, pissed off that he was being such an arse. He'd locked himself away for days and days, all because of some stupid new man he was fascinated with.

"This… George?"

"Greg!" He interjected, frowning at his sister. "Greg Lestrade."

"Whatever. This guy, surely he's not worth it?"

"You don't understand!" He got up out of his chair, running his hands through his hair desperately. "He's more than just some guy I met in a bar, he's… he's special."

Harry scowled at him, and then at the bombsite that her brother called a flat. How could he live like this? Piles and piles of books were stacked on the surfaces, food was left to go stale or mouldy wherever he'd left them, and cups of tea had been abandoned, forgotten, to go cold all over the apartment. Such a contrast to his usual, army lifestyle, where everything was cleaned with, well, _military_ precision. This bloke had turned his life upside down. She glanced at the small stereo, playing some mournful, melancholic track about unrequited love.

"Surely you don't like this crap?"

"God no. It's terrible. It makes me ache, but maybe that way I can get this out of my system." He listened to it for a bit longer. "Actually, turn it off. I can't take it. God help me, I must be in love, I just can't make a decision about anything."

"In love?" Harry said, shocked. "Jesus Christ John, you've known him for a total of two days, how can-"

"The best two days of my life!" John yelled, collapsing onto the sofa, hugging a cushion to his chest and staring at the ceiling. "He completes me."

Harry snorted. "Bullshit."

John's face contorted with anger. "Get out!"

"What?" She laughed. "Come on, are you being serious?"

"Yes, I'm being serious! Out, now!"

Harry got up, sighing. "I'll come and see you tomorrow, ok? Provided you don't play that god awful music again." John hurled the cushion at her head, but she ducked and it knocked a picture off a shelf behind her. She smirked. "See you later." She heard John's lovesick groan before she left the house, John's landlady giving her a cheery wave. She sighed again as she signalled to a passing cab, cursing her brother's stupidity. He had no job, no life and soon he would lose his flat. She'd made him put an ad in the paper about finding a flat mate but so far all the people who'd turned up had made a quick exit. Who'd want to be saddled with a roommate who couldn't pay the rent and messed up the apartment? It was times like this that she really needed a drink. She glanced at a bar nearby, closed her eyes, and told the cabbie her address. She really shouldn't get into that again.

**Scene 2**

The flames could be seen from many miles around. Sherlock Holmes sat on the ground outside the burning house, huddled in an expensive, designer coat. The pavement was cold and dirty, but at that moment he didn't really care. He just felt numb.

He'd arrived home from the police station later than he'd planned, after a case had taken an interesting turn and he'd become distracted. Which was why he'd survived the arson attack on his home, the house that he'd lived in all his life and his family had owned for generations. He'd lived there with his brother, Mycroft, since their mother and father had died, and had always assumed it would stay around forever. He had no friends and no other family. And now…

A policeman crouched down beside him, looking sympathetic. "You're lucky to be alive. If you hadn't been late home tonight then you probably would have died." Sherlock said nothing, and continued to stare blankly across the road at the other houses. "We… I'm afraid we can't find your brother. I'm sorry, but it's likely that he died in the fire."

"Is there any chance he survived?" There was no expression in his voice; he spoke in a low monotone that gave little away.

The policeman looked at him and patted his shoulder gently. "I suppose it's possible. Don't give up hope. But it's unlikely that-"

"Thank you." Sherlock got up, smoothed down his coat, and began to walk away.

"Hey! Wait up! Have you got anywhere you can stay?" Sherlock stopped but did not turn around.

"Yes," he lied. "Don't worry about me."

"I need to take your contact details."

"Err," he said, faltering slightly. He thought of who out of his various acquaintances would be likely to take him in. A memory of a kind woman in her early sixties floated into his head. "221B Baker Street. I think I'll be staying there tonight." He told the officer his mobile number and then left, the cool night's breeze biting at his neck. He knew exactly who had done this- Moriarty was determined to torture him. He would never be so stupid as to try and kill him in such a random, unpredictable way, so clearly he just wanted to destroy something important to him. And in a way the house had been important to him, but not in a good way. The death of his brother lurked in his mind, and he felt guilty for not feeling sad. Maybe he was alive, maybe he wasn't, but Sherlock couldn't pretend that he and Mycroft had been close.

**Scene 3**

Molly heard a clash of something falling to the floor and put her head in her hands. Sally Donovan staggered into the office, clutching her head and groaning.

"You were supposed to be in half an hour ago," she said plainly. "Lestrade's going to do his nut when he sees you, you know that?"

Sally moaned again, her ears still ringing from the sound of the bin she'd knocked over.

"You know he doesn't like you going out before your shift starts," Molly continued.

"He can get used to it. It's not my problem." Sally mumbled, hands clasped tightly around a mug of steaming hot coffee.

"You can't come in for work like this again Sally! I'm not going to cover for you!"

Sally rolled her eyes. "Alright, alright. Fuck Molly, it's not like I've asked you to do anything absurd."

"Last time you went out you tried to set Lestrade up with bloody Dimmock, and I was the one who had to explain the graffiti in the toilets! What were you doing in the men's room anyway?"

Sally giggled. "Wouldn't you like to know. And Dimmock's a nice bloke! A catch in fact, Lestrade would be perfect for him. Tall, handsome, well off-"

"He flashes his cash around and you know it. I bet he spends it all on booze." Molly snapped back.

"Oh whatever. He's a clever guy, he knows three languages you know. He nurses the biggest crush on Lestrade, too."

"He's too argumentative for Lestrade. He could start a fight in an empty room."

Sally glared at her, then caught a glance of D.I Dimmock entering the office. "Here he comes now." Dimmock gave Sally a smile and Molly a curt nod. Sally smirked. "Say, Dimmock, how's about cheering up Molly a bit, eh? She's being miserable at the moment."

Dimmock gave her a small smile. "Well I'm sure we can arrange something." He leered at her, eyes surveying her petite body. Molly looked outraged, and left without saying a word. Dimmock and Sally burst into hysterical laughter. Sally wiped her eyes, still grinning.

"You should stop that, she doesn't know that you don't like women."

"It's too fun to stop," he grinned cruelly. "Going out tonight Donovan?"

"Definitely. I'll drink you under the table."

He laughed. "Whatever. I'm going off shift now, I'll see you later."

"Come out looking better than you did yesterday. You looked like crap."

"What?" he said, offended. "Why? What was wrong with me?"

"Your hair for starters."

Dimmock grabbed Sally's mirror from her desk and frantically messed with his hair. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's just so bland… Don't you do anything with it?"

"No! I didn't think it needed anything!" He looked genuinely upset, so Sally took pity on him.

"I saw that stalker guy around here again yesterday. Looking for Lestrade."

Dimmock looked annoyed. "Surely there's some law against that? What makes him think he's got a chance anyway?"

"I don't know, he's quite attractive. I had a chat with him the other day, he's an army doctor. You've got to love a man in uniform."

Dimmock scowled. "Lestrade's not interested. He's not interested in anyone," he said dejectedly.

Sally smiled. "Don't worry mate. I've got a plan, just forget about it for now. See you tonight." He perked up considerably, and gave her a smile before he left. Sally grinned and began to file her nails, her hangover already feeling a little better.

**Scene 4**

_Mrs Hudson had embraced him tightly when Sherlock had arrived on her doorstep, and welcomed him into her home. He was unused to such displays of affection and felt slightly uncomfortable, but appreciated the thought. He'd sat in her warm living room with a cup of tea, explaining his predicament to her whilst she fussed over him._

"_You poor love. So you have nowhere to live?"_

"_No. This is why I came to visit you, Mrs Hudson. I know you had a flat that you wanted to rent out, and I was wondering if it would still be-"_

_Mrs Hudson's face fell. "I'm sorry my dear, but I've got a tenant now."_

_Sherlock gave her a weak smile. "Ah, well, it's ok then. Thank you for the tea in any case Mrs Hudson."_

_He got up to leave, but bumped into a man in the hallway of the large house._

"_Ah," said Mrs Hudson. "This is my tenant, John. John, this is Sherlock." John smiled warmly at Sherlock, and something about it made his knees weaken. The man was shorter than him, around 5 foot 7, but he seemed to have a much larger presence. He smelled faintly of toothpaste and tea, but it wasn't unpleasant. On the contrary, it was endearing. _

"_Hi," Sherlock mumbled, his usual cold and calculating personality banished by the man's smile._

"_Hey. You're a friend of Mrs Hudson?"_

"_Yeah…" He felt ridiculous. This was an awful first impression, if he couldn't string a sentence together, how was he going to make this man like him? He frowned, since when did he care what anyone thought about him? But this guy, this John, he had bewitched Sherlock from the moment he laid eyes upon him. Something about the way he stood, his short, military haircut that was a shade between brown and blonde, the way he'd licked his lips before he'd said hello. Suddenly he realised the conversation had carried on without him._

"_You're homeless? God, that's awful. Can't he stay here?" said John, looking concerned._

"_I've got no room in my little apartment John," said Mrs Hudson. "That is, unless you could give him your spare room for a while?"_

_John smiled. "Sure."_

"_I've got money, I can pay the rent," Sherlock blurted out._

"_That would be helpful. I'm finding it hard to get it together as it is."_

_Sherlock smiled at John, the first genuine smile he'd given for a while. "Thank you so much."_

"_Don't worry about it."_

That had marked the beginning of something… bizarre. Sherlock and John had grown close, laughing and joking and forgetting together. John seemed to level Sherlock's otherwise hectic mind, and Sherlock was a brilliant distraction for John. Meanwhile, Sherlock had fallen for John and some new, twisted emotion was growing in his chest. When John was out, which was mercifully rare, he missed him and worried about him. He wanted to please him, to make him proud… He wanted him to love him. Which is why he was thoroughly depressed to find out from John's sister that he was irrevocably in love with someone he knew. She'd come round to see John on one of his infrequent trips out.

"_Who the hell are you?" she cried, dropping the bag of shopping she was holding._

"_I'm Sherlock," he said politely, holding out a hand. "I live here."_

"_You're John's new flatmate?" she said, incredulous._

"_Uh, yeah," he said awkwardly. She smiled, and put the shopping down on the kitchen table. Sherlock sat down on the sofa. "You're John's sister?"_

"_Yeah. Harry Watson," she beamed at him. "Did you manage to get him to go out? I salute you sir."_

"_Well, I have my moments." He was trying to be friendly and polite but he got the feeling that he looked absurd. _

_She grinned at him. "I've heard a lot about you. He seems to like you, he's only known you three days and he's already treating you like a best mate."_

_Sherlock smiled, sincerely this time. "Thank you. But when you say it like that it makes me scared that he'll change his mind."_

"_I doubt it. He's taken a shine to you." At that moment, John arrived back at the flat. He looked worse than Sherlock had ever seen him, eyes slightly red from crying. Harry wrapped her arm around his shoulder and sat him down. Sherlock stood awkwardly by the door._

"_John, what's wrong?" said Harry desperately._

"_Greg…" he said sadly. "He wouldn't come and see me. I love him Harry, what am I going to do?" His voice cracked and his tears threatened to overflow. Sherlock was unsure what to do, they seemed to have forgotten he was here. As if he had read his mind- oh how perceptive the man could be sometimes- John smiled apologetically at him. "Sorry Sherlock. You don't know, do you? I… I'm in love with this guy…" Sherlock's heart felt like it had shattered. Whilst this cleared up the issue of John's sexuality, which he had been pondering for days, this also dashed any hope of a relationship with him. Sherlock tried not to let his disappointment show on his face._

"_Oh… And he, he doesn't…"_

"_Yeah…" John's voice trembled__ again. "I don't know what I'm going to do now." He got up and walked quickly into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Harry sighed._

"_I thought he'd gotten over him for one moment."_

"_Who is this guy?" asked Sherlock, resisting the urge to track him down and shake him for rejecting such a perfect man._

"_His name's Greg Lestrade. He's a police officer and John met him by chance in some bar."_

"_Wait, Greg Lestrade?" cried Sherlock._

"_Yeah… Why?"_

"_I know that guy!" John bound out of his room. He had clearly been listening through the thin walls._

"_You know him?" He asked, eyes bright with hope._

"_Yeah…I've worked with him…"_

"_You're a policeman too?"_

"_No… I'm a consulting detective. Whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they call me." He hoped this might impress John but he wasn't listening properly._

"_So you see him a lot? You have to talk to him for me!" John looked so ecstatically happy that Sherlock was unsure what to do. He glanced at Harry, willing her to help, but she looked as confused as him._

"_I don't know… We don't really know each other that well…"_

"_Oh, please, I'm begging you. He'll be more likely to listen to you than me, you're younger and more attractive so he'll pay more attention."_

_Sherlock would have asked him how this would have worked in John's favour, but was distracted. Had John just called him attractive?_

"_W-What?"_

"_You're more attractive than me. You've got this sort of allure that will draw him in; it does with everyone around you."_

_Sherlock was unsure how to take this. It was a compliment, but he was clearly still thinking about Lestrade. That lucky bastard. Now Sherlock thought about it, he remembered Lestrade mentioning some guy had been stalking him… What an odd turn of events…_

"_Please help me," said John desperately. He took Sherlock's hand and his fingers began to tingle from the contact._

"… _I'll do my best…"_

_John pulled him into a tight hug, and Sherlock felt faint from the heat between them. "Thank you so much."_

_Harry looked at Sherlock's expression and gave him a knowing look. She smiled once, and then went to make herself a cup of tea. Sherlock closed his eyes and scolded himself- this was going to get awkward._

**Scene 5**

Lestrade sat at his desk, drinking the lukewarm coffee that Molly had made for him. It was weak and didn't taste of much but he didn't really care much. It was his second day back at work since his brother had died… He wasn't really in the mood for police work right now, but was feeling a little guilty for shouting at the man he'd met in the bar around two weeks ago. He'd looked so upset, but at the time he'd been so angry about his brother that he didn't care. It was bad enough having to see his family again after a good ten years apart, then he had to bury someone so close to him. He sighed and put his head in his hands. Anderson knocked on the door and didn't wait for a reply. Lestrade sighed again. "What is it Anderson?"

"Holmes is back. He wants to speak to you."

"Tell him to go away."

"I don't blame you. He's a sociopath and he won't give a shit what's happened to you this week."

"Please, Anderson, is this all about him exposing your affair to the whole office?"

Anderson scowled. "No, I disliked him long before now."

"If you weren't so antisocial all the time then Sherlock's little jokes wouldn't bother you."

Molly stepped into the office. "Lestrade, I'd go now if I were you. Sally's got herself near him and I don't think it will end well."

"Shit. Right, Anderson, tell him to go away, will you? I'm not in the mood."

Anderson left, looking disgruntled. Lestrade sat back down in his chair just before Sally burst into the room, eyes blazing and looking furious.

"Doesn't anyone knock anymore?" he said weakly. "What's wrong Sally?"

"Him!" she yelled. "I can't take him anymore! He says he won't leave, no matter what you say. You can't let him do this to you Lestrade, he's making us look like idiots!"

Anderson re-entered. "She's right, he won't take no for an answer. He says he's come about John, or something. Who's John?"

Lestrade frowned. "Right. Send him in then, if he insists."

Anderson and Sally both stalked away angrily, whilst Molly mumbled something about touching up her makeup. Lestrade smiled at the thought of Sherlock. Though he hid it well, he had grown attatched to the strange, impossible man… And had even developed some deeper feelings for him. Lestrade blushed at the thought of Sherlock ever finding out, however. Sherlock arrived, again not knocking but sitting in the chair beside his desk.

"First things first," Lestrade began. "How do you know about John?"

"By some twist of fate, I am now living with him. He's my new flatmate."

Lestrade laughed. "How odd! But, why are you here?"

"I'm here…" Sherlock paused, a pained expression on his face. "I'm here to ask you to see John again."

"What?" said Lestrade, shocked. "You're joking, right?"

"No!" said Sherlock indignantly. "Why don't you like him?"

"It's not that he's not nice, Sherlock, but I… My brother passed away recently and-"

"How recently?" he interrupted.

"Err, about 3 weeks ago…"

"Then surely you're not still upset?" Lestrade gaped Sherlock, disbelief etched all over his tired face. Sherlock frowned. "Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah. I forgot you were a sociopath."

"Look, Lestrade, John's really crazy about you," Lestrade couldn't detect what the other emotion was in Sherlock's voice. The usually bored baritone was tainted with something that he couldn't figure out. "He'd love to see you again; it's all he's thinking about. You should be flattered."

"He's getting a little… obsessive, isn't he?"

"Well, why not? You're an attractive enough man, you've got nice eyes and nice hair and a nice smile and-"

"You sound like you're just listing these off Sherlock," he said uncomfortably, though he was rather pleased that Sherlock had noticed them.

"And John adores you. You should see him, all he does is cry and groan about how much he loves you."

Lestrade felt a blush creep up the back of his neck. "I'm sure he's a very nice guy Sherlock, I mean, he's very intelligent, kind, funny too, but I just… I just don't like him in that way. I've told him that before, I don't know why he doesn't understand."

"If I loved you with a fraction of the passion that he does then I wouldn't understand your rejection either." Sherlock said this with quiet menace and Lestrade was taken aback. Who knew that Sherlock understood feelings?

"… Sherlock, I… There's no point in you trying. I'll never… I'm just not attracted to him."

Sherlock gave Lestrade a piercing glare. "You know what, you don't deserve him," he spat bitterly. "You treat his love like it's some sort of joke. I'll see you later." Sherlock left with a twirl of his long coat, storming out of the office and sending passers by reeling in his wake. Lestrade was embarrassed to find his heart pounding heavily in his chest. Though he knew Sherlock's insult should have left him angry, it just made him long for the man more. This new found… intensity, the anger and the vehemence of his visit had just added Lestrade's mental list of reasons to love him.

Lestrade coughed, trying to shake the feelings out of his head. Unsure of what to do, he ripped a small piece of paper and wrote down his mobile number. "Anderson!"

Anderson slunk into the room, still annoyed about Sherlock's arrival. "What?"

"Run after Sherlock and give him this back," he passed Anderson the paper. "He insisted on giving it to me."

"What? No! I'm not your-"

"Anderson! Please, just do it."

"Fine," he sighed, and took the paper roughly from his hands, shutting the door a little louder than was totally necessary. Lestrade sat back down in his chair, running his hands through his hair.

"What the hell am I doing?" he muttered to himself. "Letting myself fall for Sherlock… I'm a fool. Not thinking straight. But still…" He sipped at his coffee. "Maybe it's fate?"

**Like it? Then review! **

**Thanks for reading,**

**Cryptic Nymph.**


	2. Act 2

**Hey there! This is Act 2 of my adaptation of Twelfth Night. ****I'm sorry this had taken so long to get out, but my other story kind of took priority for a while- it was supposed to be Christmassy… What the hell happened? Anyway, I also found out that we would be studying Twelfth Night in English (Spooky…) and trying to write this at the same time as analysing it was just too much. But we've stopped and I'M BACK! Thanks for reading this, and to anyone who read/reviewed the last chapter. Enjoy!**

**Scene 1**

Mycroft retched when he slipped into consciousness. He was in a warm hospital bed, of a much better standard than usual public ones. He tried to remember where he was and why. A vague memory of fire and smoke swam into focus. "Where am I?" It occurred to him that this was potentially a stupid thing to say, as it would either become immediately apparent or his captor wouldn't answer him.

"Don't worry, it's only me," A familiar voice said. He looked up and saw 'Anthea', smiling but not at him. _Texting_, he thought, _of course_. She didn't glance up at him. "There was a fire."

"Yes, I know. What name is it today?"

"Um… Antonia. Feeling alright?"

"Yes, I suppose. Where is Sherlock?"

"He took off. Gone to stay with friends apparently."

Mycroft frowned. "He doesn't have friends."

"I know. Freaked me out too."

"How long have I been out?"

"You've been in and out of consciousness for about a week and a half."

He glanced at his reflection in the back of the television. His hair had grown about an inch, and it was of a similar length to Sherlock now. He frowned, annoyed at how messy it had become, though he was delighted to find himself a lot thinner. In fact, the two brothers were now practically identical. He must have lost a good stone and a half. Though this was probably not the best way to lose weight, he was glad he had.

"So when can I leave?"

"Well, you should be OK to leave now," said 'Antonia'. "That's if you're feeling better, of course?" She never let her eyes move from the phone screen.

"No, I think I'll be going." He got up painfully, surprised to find himself fully dressed. He raised an eyebrow at Antonia.

"It wasn't me before you say anything."

Mycroft smirked before giving Antonia a serious look. "But listen, Antonia, you can't come with me from now on."

For once, she looked at Mycroft in the eye, startled. "What?"

"There's someone trying to kill me or Sherlock. I can't have them attacking you."

Antonia smiled, oddly touched by the offer. "Are you sure?"

"Yes… and… thank you for being a good assistant."

Again, Antonia was taken aback. Not once had her boss ever thanked her- she was sure that he assumed that she knew he was grateful. He wasn't one to exchange pleasantries. But here, now, he was thanking her. "Mycroft… what's happening? Is something dangerous going on?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Just let me leave and when it's safe I'll come back."

"At least tell me where you're going?"

"I can't. I don't know that either." He ran his fingers through his newly long hair. "I'm sorry if I caused you trouble Antonia."

"You were never any trouble sir," she said quietly.

Mycroft smiled at her gently, before picking up his umbrella and leaving the room. Antonia noticed him quietly wince from the large wound in his side as he did so, and sighed. That man would never learn. For all his intelligence and logic, he had never figured out that she would always follow him. It was… almost a duty. Mycroft had saved her from a dark past- she should be in prison for the things she had done in her youth, but Mycroft had given her some _hope_. She would always protect the man, even if it meant endangering her own life.

**Scene 2**

"Sherlock," Anderson glared at Sherlock as he finally caught up with the detective, panting from the distance he'd had to run. Though he looked a lot fitter, Anderson was nowhere near a match for Sherlock's stamina. His long legs carried him much further than Anderson's strides. "Lestrade told me to give you this back." He held out the piece of paper in his hand.

Sherlock looked puzzled. "What?"

"You gave Lestrade this John guy's number," he said flatly. "Well he's not interested. Understand? Make that clear to him, and don't mention it to him again unless you're going to come back and tell him how John took the news."

Sherlock was, for once, confused. He had never given Lestrade John's number… What was he playing at? Was this some sort of game? He smiled inwardly- he would play it then. "He took it off me. I'm not having it back."

"You forced it on him. He doesn't want it Sherlock," Anderson scowled at him, before screwing up the number and throwing it down onto the floor. "If you want it back, take it. If not, the cleaners can get it. I don't care any more, I'm sick of being Lestrade's lap dog, I deserve better than this…" He walked away, still muttering vehemently to himself.

Sherlock picked up the ball of paper and looked at the number. This wasn't John's (he had ridiculously memorised it- curse these new found emotions), nor was it anyone's that he knew. So who… Surely not Lestrade?

"Oh God…" Sherlock groaned, desperately searching for some other conclusion he could draw from this. "He doesn't… He's not… attracted to me?" He thought back to their meeting. Lestrade had looked at him a lot, so much that he seemed distracted… by him. Sherlock blushed. He was having trouble finishing sentences too, another clear sign of Lestrade's infatuation. "He sent Anderson back because it would have looked odd if he'd gone back to meet me. He doesn't want John- he wants _me_… I love John, John loves Lestrade, and Lestrade loves me… God, his love is just as hopeless as my own. Oh God, what am I going to do?" He strode quickly out of the building, his mind frantically trying to make sense of the whole situation.

**Scene 3**

Sally and Dimmock staggered into the office, clutching their heads and groaning. Molly looked up and sighed, shaking her head in playful disapproval at the two officers.

"My head…" groaned Dimmock.

"Do shut up," Sally murmured, grabbing a pair of sunglasses and roughly shoving them on. "Molly, get us a coffee will you?"

"Yeah," said Dimmock. "Go on Molly."

Molly frowned, but said nothing and stormed off to fetch them some. Sally smiled, and turned on the radio. Dimmock moaned. "Turn that damn racket off Sally." Again she grinned and turned up the volume. "Stop it!" She turned it up higher still. "For fucks sake Sally, turn that-"

"Hey!" yelled Molly, her patience waning. "Sally, turn that crap off. Dimmock, stop whingeing, it's your own fault for getting drunk last night." She placed the coffee mugs down in front of them. "Lestrade's pissed off about this, you know. I heard him talking to Anderson about putting you two on probation if you come in hung over again."

Sally glared at Molly. "Lestrade can shove it up his-"

"What the hell is wrong with you three?" The three looked at each other, grimaced, and turned to see Anderson looking furious in the doorway. He gave Sally in particular a deadly stare. "For fucks sake, what are you playing at? You'll be gone this time, for sure."

Sally rolled her eyes. "Relax, will you, Anderson?"

"I'll be frank with you Donovan. You're a good officer but Lestrade's considering letting you go." She said nothing, preferring to turn up the radio. The song blasted out loudly, and she began to sing along.

"_Oh what a scummy man, just give him half a chance, I'll bet he'll rob you if he can._"

Anderson's anger seemed to rise, and a vein jumped in his neck. "Is this the way you're going to be?"

Dimmock and Molly exchanged a look of glee and began to join in. "_Can see it in his eyes yeah that he's got a driving ban, amongst some other offences,_"

Anderson glared at them all. "This is stupid. You're all idiots."

Sally, despite her feisty appearance, had a beautiful singing voice, and it stood out against the average attempts of Molly and Dimmock. "_And I've seen him with girls of the night, and he told Roxanne to put on her red light,"_

Anderson flushed scarlet. "This isn't funny, Donovan."

"_They're all infected but he'll be alright, 'cause he's a scumbag, don't you know,_"

"Oh, real fucking mature Sally."

"_I said he's a scumbag don't you know," _The three collapsed into fits of hysterical laughter, and Anderson quickly switched off the radio.

"You're all pathetic. Even you, Molly. I expected better from you. Don't you care what Lestrade thinks of you?" And with that, he turned on his heel and walked angrily out of the room.

"Arrogant bastard," Molly muttered, taking a sip of her own drink.

"God, I'd love to beat the crap out of that guy," said Dimmock, scowling at the space where Anderson had been. "Any time, any place, I could take him."

Sally snorted. "Right, ok. You do that. I'll get my own personal revenge. Laxatives in the coffee, perhaps?"

Molly sighed, before an idea struck her. She began to grin. "Sally, don't do anything rash. Lestrade's still upset about his brother, and about Sherlock visiting him. Let me take care of Anderson. I have a plan. He'll look like a complete fool."

"Really?" Sally was taken aback. "I never struck you as the type to rebel against authority Molly. Go on then, what's your plan."

"Well," she began. "He's such a suck up all the time, but he's not really all pure and good, we all know that." Sally hung her head guiltily. "He's pretentious, snobby and he thinks he's so much better than everyone around him. He aspires to be more powerful than he actually is- and that's his weakness. I'll use that."

"How?" said Sally.

"He's obviously attracted to Lestrade. Practically everyone is round here," she gave Dimmock a pointed look and he blushed. "Lestrade leaves his phone lying around on his desk all the time. Anyone could use it for anything…" She gave Sally a wicked grin. "We'll send him a text. Anderson will think it's from Lestrade, when it's actually from us."  
"And what will it say?"

"That he wants him. That he'll do anything for him."

Sally burst into laughter. "That's brilliant Molly!"

"You're a fucking genius," said Dimmock proudly.

"He's going to look like such a dick," said Sally happily.

"This will be such fun," Molly replied. "We'll even watch it happen. Now, I'm going to the morgue, I'm not even supposed to be hanging around here. See you two tomorrow." She left.

Sally reclined in her chair. "She's nice, Molly. A good friend- we should invite her out one night."

"Is it really her kind of thing?" said Dimmock in disbelief.

"Well, she's proved that she can be very… unpredictable sometimes."

**Scene 4**

Sherlock and John were sat in their living room, John lying back on the sofa and Sherlock practising his violin. John let out a sigh of happiness.

"That song was beautiful, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you."

"Could you play it again? It was so wonderful…" Sherlock began to play the song once more, the sweetly melancholic sounds filling the otherwise silent flat. John beamed, his eyes shut. "Have you ever been in love, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's grip on the violin tightened. "No. Well, a little."

"Tell me about… her?" said John, the question obvious in his voice.

Sherlock wasn't sure what made him do it, but the words had left his lips before he had a chance to stop them. "She's quite like you, actually."

John laughed. "Then she's clearly not good enough for you. How old is she?"

"About… Well, about your age. Just a little older than me."

"An older woman? Never though you were the type," he chuckled.

"Well, there are a lot of unexpected things about me." Sherlock cursed his own social ineptitude. Not only did he have to contend with Lestrade for John's love, he'd also just told him he was straight. Brilliant.

John sighed deeply and sat up, swinging his legs around to sit comfortably. "I know this is horrible of me to ask, but could you go see Lestrade again for me? I need to know why he's being so cruel." He paused. "Tell him… Tell him I don't just love him for his position and his money, I love him because he's brilliant and clever and kind…" He trailed off.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "What if he still refuses to see you?"

"He can't. He won't. I won't let that happen."

Sherlock sat beside John, placing his hand on his shoulder. "You have to accept it," he said, exasperated and adoring at the same time. "Imagine… Imagine someone loved you, with all the intensity and heat that you love Greg, but you can't love them. Surely they should just accept that?"

"I don't think anyone could love me as much as I love him," he whined, head bowed and running his hands through his hair. His gorgeous, soft hair- Sherlock noted.

Sherlock sighed. "I had… a brother, and he was in love with a man like you."

"And what happened to him then?"

"He never told him. He kept it bottled up until it destroyed him, it ruined him."

John stared at Sherlock, a look of tender concern in his eyes. "What happened to your brother?" he said softly.

"I am an only child. An only son," he said, without emotion in his voice. John placed a hand upon his shoulder, staring deep into his eyes with a look of such care and devotion that Sherlock was close to kissing him. What startled him was that John's eyes smouldered with a similar passion to his own. Or was he imagining things?

Sherlock stood up. "I'll go to see him, shall I?"

John hesitated for a fraction of a moment before speaking. "Yeah. Yeah, thanks Sherlock."

**Scene 5**

Sally and Dimmock crept silently into the room which was empty but for Anderson. He was eating lunch on his own- he disliked sitting with the others- and Molly was about to carry out her plan. Quietly, the two moved behind a large filing cabinet, trying not to giggle. Luckily, Anderson was listening to the radio so their laughter was harder to hear.

"This is going to be great!" Sally giggled. "He'll be so humiliated. It'll serve him right."

They both began to laugh once more, but stopped at the sound of Anderson's voice.

"It's all just luck," he said.

Sally and Dimmock were confused. Was he talking to himself? Desperate to know, she peeked around the corner of the cabinet and glanced at him. He was on the phone, who knew to, probably someone stupid enough to be friends with a man like Anderson.

"I mean," he continued. "Molly said to me just now that Lestrade fancies me. Oh, she's just some boring cow from work, but the point still stands. She said that Lestrade was going to be interested in someone, it would be me, not John or fucking Dimmock." Dimmock growled. "He treats me better than the others anyway. So maybe he does like me…"

"Arrogant bastard," Sally muttered.

"He's even worse when he's on his own," said Dimmock darkly. "Look at him, strutting about like he owns the place."

"The boyfriend of the boss… That'd get me some power around here," Anderson continued. "They say office romances never last, but I think they're wrong. I could keep him happy."

"Egotistical son of a-"

"Be quiet," Sally whispered to Dimmock. "This is what we want. It will make the humiliation even worse."

"They'd have to get me coffee. And treat me properly, and realise that I am superior to them." The smirk was evident from Anderson's voice. "Then I'd _advise_ him that Sally Donovan was not the kind of person he wanted on the force."

"That does it," Sally began to move but Dimmock stopped her.

"She'd _beg_ for her job back, on bended knee." Anderson laughed cruelly.

"I'd fucking belt him, more like," Sally spat.

"I'd love that. To watch her squirm. To make them pay-" Anderson stopped midway through a sentence. "Can I call you back? I've got a text."

Sally and Dimmock grinned at each other whilst Anderson hung up. "This is Lestrade's number…" said Anderson, slightly disbelieving. He read the text, and gasped. "What the… '_Hey sexy'_," Sally and Dimmock began to snigger. "'_I really think that we could have something great. I know I'm your boss, but no-one needs to know about us just yet. Don't text me back- if you love me too, do these things. Tomorrow, be rude to Donovan, Dimmock and Molly- in fact, be rude to everyone you come into contact with, but especially these three. You are better than them, they need to realise it. Secondly, wear some tight jeans. I'd really like to see you in them *winky face*'_." Anderson sat down in a chair. "So it's true… He really does love me." He grinned. "'_Finally, if you really want this as much as I do, you have to smile. Smile a lot at me- smile whenever I am nearby. I love your smile almost as much as I love you. Love L xxo'_. I can't believe this… Everything I've ever wanted… God, tomorrow is going to be _such_ a good day." He laughed to himself, and got up. He was still chuckling as he went out the door.

As soon as the door had closed, Sally and Dimmock collapsed into a heap on the floor, roaring with laughter.

"I wouldn't have missed that for any amount of money!" Sally howled, wiping a tear from her eye.

"Molly's my hero," Dimmock gasped, shaking with uncontrollable laughter. At that moment, Molly walked into the room, grinning.

"Did he take the bait?"

"Completely. You should have been here," said Sally. "It was classic!"

"Anything you want from now on," said Dimmock gratefully. "You're clearly a genius."  
"Dimmock's right. That was inspired, Molly."

Molly beamed. "He'll go mental once he hears the truth. I can't wait for tomorrow- it'll be _so_ entertaining…"

**Hope you liked it!**

**P.S The song that Sally, Dimmock and Molly sing is "When The Sun Goes Down" by Arctic Monkeys. Thanks for reading!**


	3. Act 3

**Scene 1**

Sherlock awoke early the next morning, desperate not to have to talk to John. The eager look of hope and adoration in his eyes when he spoke of Lestrade was too much for him to bear. What Sherlock would have given to see John look like that whilst thinking of him… Grabbing an early taxi, he smoothed down his hair, glancing at his reflection in the window. He felt some sort of obligation to look good if he was acting as an ambassador for John.

Sherlock was surprised to find Sally waiting for him when he arrived at Scotland Yard. She greeted him with a frown, obviously feeling that she had something better she could be doing with her time.

"Lestrade wants you," she said flatly. "Get your arse up there sharpish."

Sherlock smirked. "I was going to see him myself. Though it's good to see you've been promoted from Anderson's lover to Lestrade's lapdog." Perhaps it had been unnecessarily cruel, but Sherlock was frustrated and tired, and the insult had certainly struck a nerve with her.

Sally gave him a furious glare. "We can't all sweep around looking dramatic; some of us have to work. Now fuck off."

Sherlock was about to, before he caught sight of Lestrade approaching him. "It looks like I don't need to," he said to Sally, giving her a sly grin.

Lestrade smiled shyly at Sherlock. "Hi," he said, a little too out of breath than was strictly normal for a seemingly fit police officer.

"I've come about John," Sherlock said, trying hard not to say anything that would reveal his emotions for the man.

"Sure. Come have a word in private, yeah?"

An awkward lift journey followed, with he, Sally and Lestrade all standing in silence. Sally was still reeling from Sherlock's derision, and Sherlock was all too aware of Lestrade trying to catch his eye. He had a _dangerous _expression on his face. When they were finally alone in Lestrade's office, Sherlock cleared his throat, attempting to keep this as professional as possible.

"As you know, I'm here for John. He's my friend and I'm your friend, so I feel that-"

"I thought we were… well, not _colleagues_, but never as close as friends," Lestrade looked delighted at this positive step forward in his plans.

"John is my friend, and you are the man he loves, so how can you not be my friend?" he said quickly.

Lestrade sighed. "But I don't love him Sherlock. I'm not attracted to him. I'd rather he thought of no-one at all than waste his time hopelessly fixating on me."

"That's why I've come. To make you like him."

"Let's not talk about John for once," Lestrade leaned back on the door of his office. Sherlock glanced nervously at the glass walls, presently covered by blinds. With a jolt, he realized that no-one could see what went on in here. "Sherlock, you must realize that I…I've only recently figured out my true feelings for you. I gave you my number, you could have called. I'm risking my job, doing this. It's inappropriate, and you probably think I'm a fool for doing this. How could someone as intelligent as you not think that?"

Lestrade's pained expression made him deeply uncomfortable. "Greg-"

"This is stupid and childish, I know. I'm being so… _impulsive_ and hormonal, it's not like I'm a teenager anymore! But… You've awakened something in me that I didn't know I could feel. I've never felt so attracted to _anyone_ Sherlock. You have to understand this!" He took a step closer to him, but still blocked the door.

"Lestrade, I don't love you," He sat on the edge of the desk and tried to think of what his old, sociopathic self would have said in this situation. "I pity you for this ridiculous infatuation."

"That's nearly love," Lestrade said frantically. "Maybe, over time you could-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "Lestrade, I can't love you."

"When you're ready, I'll be waiting," he said hoarsely, choking back his tears. "I think you're denying what you really are, Sherlock."

"I'm asexual, you know that."

"But are you? Or do you just say that to make it easier?"

Sherlock felt his stomach leap and John's face flashed briefly before his eyes. "I wish I was something better, but I'm not. If you can't deal with that then I can't help you."

Lestrade was all too aware of Sherlock's beauty even in this rejection. His anger only seemed to highlight his perfect features, making Lestrade lust for the man more.

"I can't hide my feelings any more, Sherlock. Just because I'm desperate for you doesn't mean you should sit back and let me do all the work! I need to be loved too-" He took a step towards Sherlock, blocking him against the desk. Lestrade's breath was hot on his face. "I need you Sherlock." He bent his head to kiss him, but Sherlock gently pushed him away.

"I don't have a heart, Greg. And if I did, it would belong to someone else. I'm sorry." He stood, and moved towards the door.

"You'll still help on cases?" Lestrade said weakly.

"Of course. What would you do without me?"

Lestrade laughed but the sound faltered. Sherlock shut the door quietly behind him, and the detective inspector put his head in his hands. Despite the refusal, Sherlock's new unattainable status was incredibly alluring. Perhaps he could learn to love him?

**Scene 2**

Sally had been absent mindedly doodling on a scrap of paper when Dimmock confronted her.

"Sally, I thought you said I was in there with Lestrade."

"What?" she said, bewildered by his change in behaviour. "You are!"

"That's crap!" he spat. "Didn't you just see the freak come out of his office? All hot and flustered? They _certainly_ weren't discussing a case! I swear, I heard Lestrade say that he loved that psychopath." He sat down, looking dejected.

"Sociopath," Sally corrected him, and then paused, unsure of how to comfort him. As much as she enjoyed mocking Dimmock's fruitless attempts at attracting Lestrade, he often needed encouragement. She'd never claimed to be the nicest person in the world. "Did Lestrade see you watching?"

"Err," Dimmock scratched his head. "I don't know. Maybe?"

"Well then!" Sally laughed. "That proves it!"

"Proves what?" said Dimmock, still as confused as before.

"He does like you Dimmock. Isn't it obvious?"

"Are you taking the piss?"

"Look, he did that to make you jealous! He's clearly playing hard to get. You should have burst in and thrown the freak out. That's what he was expecting, and you've blown it! You're going to have to prove yourself another way…" Sally stopped, trying to think of an act that could impress Lestrade.

"Like what?"

"Fight Sherlock? Lestrade's the type to be impressed by a show of dominance," she lied. "It's the only way."

"Will you go and tell him that I'm going to fucking deck him then?"

"Yeah, and I'll tell him you're built like a fucking house. Works out every day. It'll terrify him," she gave Dimmock a grin, which he returned.

"Right. Tell him- any time, any place." And with that, he strode out of the room, perhaps a little cockily.

A voice somewhere in Sally's head said "_That was too easy_". Maybe it had been cruel, but Dimmock was far too arrogant for her liking. He was nowhere near the brave masculine fighter he thought he was- he was a coward, and always would be.

"Sally!" came a whisper from the door. It was Molly. "Come here," she managed between giggles. "It's Anderson."

A wide smile broke out on Sally's face. "Did he do it?"

"Yeah! I have no idea how he got into those jeans, they're far too tight in far too many places. He's done everything I told him to do- he called me a fat whore when I came in," Never had anyone looked more delighted to have been called a fat whore. "Come look!"

Sally followed her, wishing she had a camera.

**Scene 3**

Mycroft sighed when he received the text. He'd been sitting in a café for around half an hour, trying to formulate a plan to catch Moriarty and punish him for the destruction of his family's home. He got up, walked across the café and sat down next to his assistant.

"I didn't want you to be endangered, but seeing as you are so incorrigible," Antonia gave a brief smile at the word. "I wont stop you from helping me."

She looked up from her phone. "I was worried. And you forgot your drugs." She put down the jar of pills.

Mycroft smiled. "You should know that the Holmes boys don't react well to medication. We become dependent."

"You need to take them," she said calmly, though she had a pleading look in her eyes. "Besides, you'll have to have someone with you to help you get to places."

"I am not yet so feeble that I need such assistance," Mycroft snapped. "I'm not a child, Antonia."

She smirked. "I want paying overtime."

He smiled back. "Naturally. Now, we must decide what to do. Take in a show?"

"We'd better find you somewhere before we sightsee."

"It's funny that," he gazed out of the window. "I've worked in London for half my life, yet I've never gone to 'the main attractions'. Fancy going on the London Eye?"

Antonia blushed. "Well, there's a problem with that…"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Not another secret from your past?"

"It was a hen party!" she protested. "I'd had one too many, and… vandalized the wheel." She glared at Mycroft, who was failing to contain his laughter. "I'd only just started working for you!"

"How did you manage to escape?" he chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye.

"I blocked the cameras using my mobile," she muttered darkly.

"Yet more proof of why I keep you around," Mycroft smiled.

"There's a hotel nearby," said Antonia. "The Ivory Tusk. I've booked you in- discreet for the elite, if you get my meaning. No-one will ask questions there. You check in in an hour."

"So what do we do until then?"

"I've got to sort out who's been trying to kill you. You, on the other hand," she slid the pills across the table at him. "Are going to take your medicine and go on the London Eye. Have fun." They both stood, Mycroft glaring reluctantly at the pills in his hand. "The Ivory Tusk, remember?"

"Yes." They exited and walked in separate directions, as if they had never been talking.

**Scene 4**

Lestrade glanced nervously at the phone in his hand. He'd just received a text from Sherlock saying that he was coming in. He paced his office nervously, desperately trying to clear his head. He wasn't sure how to act, how to talk, he wasn't even sure how to speak. Whenever he tried, his voice came out as a hoarse, croaking whisper. He got up and smoothed his hair, wishing he could calm down. Try as he liked, he couldn't stop being so… ecstatic at the idea that Sherlock might love him in return. He needed something to calm him down.

Suddenly, Anderson strolled confidently into the office, with more swagger in his step than usual. Lestrade choked on the coffee he had been drinking. Anderson was wearing the most ridiculously tight trousers he had ever seen and beaming straight at him, with a horrible glint in his eye.

"Anderson, what the fuck are you on?" he cried, unable to take his eyes off the oddly hypnotizing jeans.

Anderson caught him looking and grinned impishly. "Hey sexy," he purred, standing far too close to him than was necessary.

"Anderson, what the-"

"I got your text," he said breathily, brushing his fingers down his face. "I'm wearing the jeans. I'm smiling. Fancy some light relief?" He moved closer still, his hand resting on Lestrade's back.

Lestrade had frozen, unable to move out of sheer unmitigated horror. "Are you alright? Maybe you should go to bed mate."

Anderson raised his eyebrow suggestively. "Only if you come with me."

"Christ Anderson!" he retreated, backing into the wall and finding himself trapped. "What the hell are you doing?"

Molly entered the room, having heard Lestrade's yells. "Everything alright?" she asked, looking concerned.

"Molly!" Lestrade sighed with relief, but his celebration was interrupted.

"Get out, you fucking whore," he growled, glaring at the woman.

Molly looked affronted. "Fine!" she shouted, slamming the door behind her.

"Molly, help!" Lestrade screamed, but it was too late.

Anderson appeared not to hear Lestrade's protests. "Don't be afraid. I'll be gentle- unless you don't want me to be." He started to undo his own shirt.

"Anderson!" Lestrade roared. "Stop-" Anderson silenced him by kissing him forcefully, hands fumbling with the belt buckle of Lestrade's trousers. Pinned to the wall, Lestrade could do nothing but squirm and wriggle in objection.

Anderson pulled away, panting slightly. "Greg," he moaned. "I want you _now_."

Lestrade summoned the strength to push him away. Anderson flew backwards, stumbling over the desk and falling to the floor. "You're mad!" Lestrade yelled. "Get away from me!" He stormed out of the room, and Anderson swayed to his unsteady feet, still with that mischievously sexual gleam in his eyes.

"Molly," Lestrade gasped. "You and Sally look after Anderson will you? There's something very wrong with him, I think he's drunk or something…I have to meet Sherlock."

Molly nodded, afraid to speak in case she burst into laughter. Anderson staggered out of the office. "Molly," he laughed. "Isn't this fantastic? Sally, Lestrade's right hand officer, Sally Donovan, is going to have to look after me."

Molly looked at Anderson kindly. "Are you alright? I mean, Lestrade just _rejected_ you like that…"

Anderson laughed again. "Don't you see?" he said, as if she had missed the most obvious point in the world. "You're so stupid Molly. He's sent Donovan to me so I can be rude to her, just like he asked me to in the text. Just like he said to be awful to you. That's right, he respects me more than you, you fucking slag, so you can realize who's the boss around here. Me, that's who."

"I don't think you're well, Anderson…"

"Bullshit! I'm fine! Didn't you hear him say? He told you to look after me… He cares about me! Everything's fine, and nothing can change that. Nothing can come between me and Lestrade."

"What's happening? I heard loud noises…" said Sally, emerging from the corridor.

"You!" Anderson cried, frowning at Sally angrily. "Fuck off. I want to be on my own. I'm waiting for Lestrade."

"He's gone ape shit," said Molly matter of fact-ly to Sally. "Lestrade told us to look after him."

Sally grinned cruelly. "Are you alright Anderson?" she said slowly, emphasizing every syllable carefully. "Do you feel okay?"

"What the fuck are you on about?" Anderson said bluntly.

"Do you think he's ok? We haven't driven him too far have we?" said Molly quietly to Sally.

"No," she whispered back. "This is where it gets good." She straightened herself up and spoke loudly and clearly. "Right, I think we should take him down to the cells for a while to cool off. I think there's something wrong with him…"

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Anderson complained. "Go fuck yourselves, the lot of you. I've had enough of this." He exited the room furiously, muttering darkly about 'a higher future waiting for him'.

Sally and Molly fell into hysterics. "I can't believe he's being so dramatic!" Sally giggled.

"I thought of the damn plan, and even I didn't think it'd go this well!" Molly sniggered.

"We'll have to go find him and lock him away for a while. He can't be allowed to run around like this. Have I said before that you're a bloody genius Molly?"

At that moment, Dimmock crept eagerly up behind Sally. "Sally!" he exclaimed. "I'm going to do it. The freak's here. Lestrade's going to see him- I'll fight him and then I'll beat the shit out of him."

Molly laughed. "Right. Ok. Well you'd better get to it- he won't be around for long."

Sally sneered. "Yeah, and when you see him, you should start swearing really badly. It'll make you look like a hard man."

Dimmock grinned and said "Thanks!" before leaving.

Molly smirked. "That was cruel."

"Maybe, but it'll be entertaining."

Antonia looked up at the large police building. She needed a brilliant mind to help her find Moriarty, and Sherlock was the only person she could think of who was intelligent enough. She'd checked his flat to no avail, finding only a young man with short brown hair who had informed her that Sherlock was at Scotland Yard. She certainly wasn't supposed to be there, but snuck in through various security measures with very little hacking needed. They really did need tighter safety regulations for the police. She walked through the labyrinthine corridors, trying her best to blend in and look for Sherlock at the same time. Suddenly, she heard footsteps approaching her, and she dove into a stock cupboard nearby. Staying impossibly still, she tried not to make a sound and listened to the sounds outside.

"I'm sorry Sherlock," a voice pleaded. Sherlock _was_ here then. "I know I shouldn't have done it, and I'll probably lose my job for being unprofessional, but I couldn't help it!"

"John's just as in love with you as you are with me," Sherlock stated plainly

She heard footsteps headed towards the door.

"Please! Just, promise you'll come back tomorrow. Please!" A door on the other side of the corridor shut. The other man had left.

Sherlock blew out his breath, and Antonia was just about to emerge before she heard a chuckle. It was a woman this time. "You've done it this time!" Antonia could just make out her gleeful smile. "You've really pissed him off. God help you. He wants your blood Sherlock."

"I don't know who you're talking about, Sally," said Sherlock coldly. "I keep a mental log of people I offend, and I can't think of one with any desire to fight me."

"I'm just warning you, is all. He'll flatten you if you meet him."

"Who, damn it?" he yelled, clearly annoyed by this Sally's tauntingly childish tone.

"Dimmock."

Sherlock snorted. "Dimmock?" He chuckled.

"Yeah, and he's after you. I'd hurry out of here if I were you; it's not going to end well for you… He doesn't look much, but he could take you down with a single punch. He's stronger than you, and he's got a nasty temper. I've tried to calm him down but you insulted him…"

"I did no such thing," he said indignantly.

"He's coming to beat the crap out of you. I'll try and stop him, talk some sense into him, but I can't promise anything."

Sherlock laughed derisively, but dread was audible in his voice. Quite rightly, Antonia thought- he wasn't a fighter and he couldn't win whatever fight they were planning. Another man entered, looking pale. Sally slunk over to him. "Sherlock's on the warpath," she whispered to him, faking a look of concern. "He's really pissed off Dimmock."

Dimmock glanced at the tall, thin man. "What, him? He doesn't look like much…"

"You'd think it, wouldn't you? But he spends all his time running around London, so he's fit. Not to mention he kicks off if anyone insults him."

"Really?" Dimmock stared at the bored looking man opposite him. "Christ, what have I gotten myself in for…?"

The woman's mock comfort did little to steady his nerves, and soon she raised her voice to speaking level once again. "Ok, steady you two. We don't want any fighting here."

She gave them both pointed looks, as if to say _get on with it_.

"I have things to be doing, I'm not going to waste my day with you," said Sherlock curtly. He turned on his heel and left. Antonia groaned- she had to catch up with him. She stumbled out of the cupboard.

Sally blinked at her. "Who the hell are you, and why are you in our store cupboard?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," she said plainly, and turned to leave.

Sally placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back. "Hey! You can't just walk in here off the street, you realize that, right?"

"Back off," she growled. "I have to catch up with him." She turned once again to leave, but Sally stopped her again.

"Do you have ID? I'm going to fucking report you."

"I'd like to see you try," she smirked. "Did Sherlock do something to offend you?"

"Who wants to know?" Sally squared up to her, eyes flashing.

"A friend," she said with quiet menace. "And you'd be wise to leave him alone."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll fight his battles for him."

Sally laughed. "Oh this I'd love to see. Careful, you might break a nail." She was mid laugh when Antonia's hand connected with her face. Stumbling backwards from shock, her surprise soon became fury. She slapped her back, leaving a red stinging mark on Antonia's face. Soon they were immersed in a tangle of hair pulling, name calling and foot stamping, desperate to attack one another.

"Can we get some security down here please?" Dimmock yelled, unsure how to break them up. Two tall men ran down the corridor towards them, quickly grabbing a woman each and holding them back with considerable effort.

"Sally, what happened?" they asked her.

"This bitch has no ID, and she attacked me!" she shrieked angrily, still scowling at her opponent.

"Come with us," the men said gruffly, taking Antonia roughly by the arms and escorting her away.

"Please," she sighed. "Get Sherlock! I need to find him, it's urgent!"

One of the guards looked through her bag and found the false ID she was carrying. "Sure, we'll call him. We'll tell him Antonia Jones is looking for him."

She was momentarily relieved, before she remembered. "Wait! He won't, he doesn't-" She broke off, gloom slowly filling her. He wouldn't know.


	4. Act 4

_**A/N Hey there! Long time, I know, I'm very sorry. Things have been MAJORLY hectic, and through a combination of boring factors, I have shameless neglected this fic. Therefore, I have given you a triple helping of chapters, to apologize. I've kind of had to split part of the last act into an epilogue, because it was getting WAY too long, and it seemed to fit.**_

_**WARNING: References to drug use at the start.**_

_**Enjoy! x**_

* * *

**Scene 1**

Mycroft staggered into a darkening alleyway and sank to the floor, his previously well kept suit now ruffled from running. He wasn't sure where he was going, and he wasn't sure he cared. He glanced down at the little bottle of pills clasped tightly in his hand, now nearly empty. So yes, he'd taken a few too many. So yes, he'd probably regret this for the rest of his life. It didn't seem to matter- he was experiencing a delicious high, and it was all he could feel.

Mycroft ripped off his tie, shuddering through his delirium, his neck feeling constricted by the tight material. He sighed, looking at the torn silk, knowing that it was one of his favourites.

_**Get up.**_

Mycroft leaped to his feet, shocked. "Who's there?"

_**No-one, stupid. You're supposed to be the clever one, aren't you?**_

Mycroft paused, attempting to regain his still drug addled thoughts. "You're in my head."

_**Yes. I've come to get you.**_

"What? That doesn't make any sense."

_**It doesn't have to.**_

"Piss off," he grumbled, rubbing his forehead. What was the name of the hotel? It was something odd, he knew that…

_**Fine then! I won't tell you that you need to go to Scotland Yard, because Antonia's in trouble. No, that would be ridiculous.**_

"Antonia's in trouble?"

_**Oh, you listen now. Rude with me when he's normal, but when he needs my help, oh no, don't listen to your conscience, Mycroft. I'm only looking out for you- after all, I'm you too.**_

"How do you know that she's in trouble?"

_**Front pocket. No, not your handkerchief, your phone. Buzzing. For the last half an hour. You checked it, but you can't remember. Idiot boy.**_

Dazedly, Mycroft checked his mobile. Indeed, there was a message flashing on screen:

_Send help. Trapped in Scotland Yard. Mad bitch tried to rip my hair out._

_A_

"Oh shit," Mycroft mumbled. "So you're right."

_**Of course.**_

"You're a hallucination, right? This is all in my head, it isn't real?"

_**Of course this is happening inside your head, Mycroft, but why on earth should-**_

"Yes, I know the quote."

_**Well you put off reading the books for long enough, like the stubborn little man you are. Everyone recommended them to you, but no, Mycroft Holmes could never be seen reading a children's book. And look at you now- a proud Ravenclaw. Honestly.**_

"Do shut up."

It did so. Mycroft glanced at himself in a puddle, running a hand through his newly long hair, noting his bedraggled appearance. He was, thankfully, clean shaven, but his suit was in ruins. They'd never let him into Scotland Yard if they saw him like this. He pulled out his wallet, thankfully still in his jacket pocket. He'd have to buy another suit. His brain sought for a nearby retailer of his particular designer, but he could think of none. He did know that there was a shop close by that Sherlock shopped in. It gave him pleasure to think that in his newly thin state, he could probably buy one. Smirking, he walked in the direction of the retailer, prepared to spring Antonia from Scotland Yard as soon as he could make himself look presentable.

* * *

Sally sat on her desk, drinking her coffee absentmindedly, whilst brushing her hair. That bitch had messed her hair up, as well as insulting her dignity. Her face was still hot from where she had slapped her, and she scowled at the memory of the woman.

She glanced a tall, thin man enter the office, and realized with a jolt that it was Sherlock. But it couldn't be, he looked a little… different. His suit had changed; it was similar to the one he had been wearing before, but clearly different. He didn't look as thin, he was slightly fuller faced, and his hair looked a littler shorter. He even looked the tiniest fraction taller. She shook her head, scolding herself, knowing that this surely must be the man she loathed so much.

"Hey, freak!" She called, beckoning Dimmock over to her as she flagged down the man.

Sherlock, or who she assumed was Sherlock, smirked. "Me?" He walked slowly over to where the two stood.

Sally hesitated. "Freak, your voice is different. Higher. What's with you?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but not before a furious Dimmock landed a heavy blow across his face. He stumbled backwards but did not fall, clutching his nose, glaring at the man.

"How trivial." He raised his arm, and struck Dimmock twice, seemingly effortlessly, causing the detective to fall to the floor. "Who do you think I am?"

Sally gaped, in awe of his capabilities. "You knocked him out!" She yelled, crouching down beside him and checking he was alright.

"He punched me. It was a natural reaction. Now answer my question- who do you think I am?"

"The freak!"

"The freak? Who are you talking about?"

"You know! Stop pretending to be someone else!"

Dimmock rose, his hands quivering over his bleeding face. "Leave it Sally," he groaned. "I'll sue you!"

"You hit me first, you imbecile."

"… What does that matter?" He dragged himself to his feet. "Sally, let's go."

"Not a chance," she said, frowning at the man in front of her. "Where'd you learn to fight, freak?"

"I must protest, I don't know who you think I am, but I assure you-"

"Come on then. Hit me, if you can," she interrupted.

He smiled. "My mother taught me never to hit a woman."

She squared up to him. "You ought to learn some manners, freak."

She raised her hand, but found it blocked by another man's arm. Lestrade had grabbed it as she had gone to slap him. "Sally," he said warningly. "Don't even think about it."

"Let me at him!" She snarled, struggling against his firm grip.

"No!" he shouted, suddenly intimidating. "You need to learn some manners, Donovan." He didn't even bother looking at the stunned Dimmock, not noticing his bleeding face. "Dimmock, I don't care if you're the same rank as me, you're acting like a child. Get out, and take Sally with you!"

* * *

They left, muttering darkly, leaving the two alone. "God, I'm so sorry," Lestrade apologised.

"It's fine, I assure you," said Mycroft, still confused about who they thought he might have been. He clutched his head, another wave of pills kicking in, making him feel light headed. He wasn't quite aware of all his movements.

Lestrade noticed his "Come into my office," he gently helped him sit down by his desk, pulling a First Aid kit from one of the drawers. Carefully, he examined the tiny cut across his face where one of Dimmock's rings had caught his cheek. He dabbed at it with antiseptic, and Mycroft winced at the stinging pain.

"I really am sorry, I had no idea they would treat you like this," Lestrade pleaded with him.

"It's… fine," Mycroft replied, his words disjointed. He had become rather distracted. Firstly, the drugs were taking effect, and he couldn't really make sense of his actions. It felt a bit like a dream, everything was surreal and unusual. Secondly, and rather more prominently, he had a police officer tending to his wounds, a rather gorgeous one, now he thought about it. Maybe this was all a hallucination? It seemed possible. Yes, perhaps it was. The man seemed to match all descriptions of "Gregory Lestrade" that he had heard from Sherlock, and the name suited him. He couldn't stop himself glancing at the detective, his thick hair, his jaw line, his strong shoulders.

"Sherlock, are you alright? You look… different."

He noted the use of his brother's name, but it didn't register properly. He was far too high to make sense of the situation. "…What?"

"You look different. Taller. Have you had a haircut?" Lestrade thought to himself, he does look changed. Not badly of course. If anything, he looked nicer, a little healthier, a little more weight was present under the suit. Lestrade blushed.

"No…" Mycroft groaned, feeling a little woozy.

"Christ, maybe you've got concussion. I'll have to get a doctor." He tried to find his mobile in his pocket.

Mycroft was alarmed by this- he needed to stay here, to find Antonia. Desperately, his mind searched for a way to keep himself in the office.

He pulled Lestrade into a tight embrace, kissing him roughly, enjoying it far too much. He told himself it was to distract him, yes, that was the reason, that was why he found himself pinning the detective to the floor, his hands snaked in his hair. Lestrade moaned slightly against his mouth, sending a jolt of electricity through him. This sudden burst of physical desire confused Mycroft. In any other situation, he would have analysed it. But under the influence of his medication, his mind became hazy, and he ruled on instinct alone. And his instincts were only that he wanted to be ruled, owned, taken by this man, and nothing else.

* * *

**Scene 2**

Molly and Sally lurked in the corridor outside an interrogation room, where they knew that Anderson was waiting. Security had _finally_ caught up with him, and they'd taken him here to wait.

"So, what are you going to do?" asked Molly, half eager and half apprehensive.

"I'm going to confront him with his worst nightmare. Quick, get into the other room, behind the two way mirror so you can watch."

She walked swiftly into the room, and sat down opposite Anderson.

"You realise what you've done is a very, serious offence, Anderson?"

He glared at her. "What?"

"Not just for work, though, I'm sure that insulting your colleagues is enough to get you fired."

Anderson gaped, his mouth open in shock. "But I've done nothing wrong!"

"Denial!" Sally shouted. "A characteristic of a psychopath, wouldn't you agree? A lack of understanding of what they've done, feeling no guilt or remorse, taking pleasure out of antisocial behaviour- you're textbook."

"Look, I'm not-"

"A superficial charm," she continued. "In order to manipulate people. That's what you did to me, wasn't it? Charm me into sleeping with you? I don't know why I didn't see this before. The cold behaviour, the need to be in control, the fact that you clearly didn't care about being caught after you did all these things!"

Anderson stood up. "I-I-I-," he stammered. "I'm not a psychopath!"

"Yes you are. And you have committed crimes."

Anderson gasped. "No I haven't!"

"You tried to rape Lestrade!"

Anderson glared. "No I didn't, he wanted that as much as I did."

"Did he, or did he not, tell you to stop?"

"… Yes, but-"

"And you ignored him."

"… Yes, I suppose so, but that's not-"

"He can charge you for sexual assault, do you realise that?"

Fear shimmered in Anderson's eyes. "What?"

"You are ill, and you need to be taken care of, and punished for what you've done."

"Sally, please!"

But she said no more, simply shutting the door behind her. Molly emerged from the room next door.

"That was brilliant!" she whispered, giggling quietly. "He's such an arse."

"I know," Sally smiled. "This'll teach him." A thought suddenly occurred to her. "Molly, do you fancy going for a drink later on?"

Molly looked taken aback. "Me?"

"Yes, you, is there anyone else called Molly around?" she teased playfully. "Dimmock's irritating me, and I need someone to go drinking with. Fancy coming?"

Molly thought for a moment. "Yes, I'd like that."

They walked away, ignoring the shouts of frustration from the room they had just left.

* * *

**Scene 3**

Mycroft awoke on the floor of Lestrade's office, naked, his head resting on Lestrade's bare chest. He moaned quietly, his head splitting, remembering his actions. Frantically, he got up, pulling on his clothes and thanking the heavens that the blinds had been shut. Mycroft smiled down at the man on the floor. He was beautiful, he knew that. He wanted nothing more than to stay with him, wrapped in his arms, so glad that it hadn't been some drug induced hallucination. Mycroft knew that he was real, and that this had been a very real moment, but his impulsiveness had cost him finding Antonia.

Suddenly, Lestrade awoke, smiling up at him. "Hello you."

Mycroft kissed him, softly this time, gently stroking his face. "That was amazing," he said breathily, "but I have to go."

"So quickly?" Lestrade said, a little sadly. "I know this was sudden, and I shouldn't have been so reckless, but- maybe we could form something good out of this? A proper relationship?"

Mycroft grinned. "I'd like that."

Lestrade hastily pulled on his clothes, Mycroft silently watching in admiration. He pulled Mycroft into an embrace. "Oh Sherlock, I'm so glad you've seen sense."

He froze, stiffening as memories flooded back to him, and a horrifying sense of betrayal fell over him. "You- You think I'm Sherlock?"

Lestrade frowned, then chuckled. "Yes! Obviously! Who else would you be?"

Mycroft stared, shaking a little. "Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. I'm so sorry. I- I have to-" he turned to leave, but Lestrade grabbed his arm.

"What's wrong?"

"I- I'm not who you think I am."  
Lestrade, bewildered, laughed. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"I have to go, I'm sorry!" He ran, as fast as he could manage on his still weak legs, leaving a heartbroken Lestrade behind him.


	5. Act 5

**Scene 1**

John bowed his head as he walked into Scotland Yard, attempting to look as nonchalant as possible. He gave a brief smile to the woman on the desk, though his heart was not in it. He'd come to try and find Lestrade, and Sherlock had come too- and this pleased him, far too much know he came to think about it. He enjoyed his presence, he liked him being here with him.

He shook his head to himself, and noted absentmindedly that his body had taken him through the doors with the large "RESTRICTED ACCESS" sign on them, Sherlock was a little in front. It seemed as if he was leading the way. It didn't bother him too much.

"Er, which way do we go?" he asked Sherlock, bewildered at the labyrinthine passageways that seemed to last for an eternity. He'd never been able to find his way around the place- every time he'd come before, he'd had to ask. He wasn't stupid enough to ask someone this time.

"Um… Normally, I don't come this way. I think it's this way," he pointed to the right.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Just as they about to take a right (which, he learned later, would have taken in _completely _the wrong direction- Sherlock's knowledge of the streets of London did not stretch to individual buildings), a smiling police officer approached him.

"John, right?" she grinned.

"Er, yeah," he said. "Sorry, have we met?"

"Sally Donovan. The other day, you came to see Greg. We had a little chat."

He laughed. "Oh, yeah, sorry about that! I've got a memory like a sieve."

"No problem." Seemingly noticing Sherlock for the first time, she glowered. "So you've met up with the freak then."

John felt a sudden rush of dislike for Sally. "He's not a freak," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "And we only just got here."

Sally frowned. "Oh. But, you were around earlier, Sherlock, weren't you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No."

Sally frowned again, seemingly confused. "But-"

"We're here to see Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted. "Run along and get him, will you?"

Sally stared, her face a mixture of bewilderment and anger, before turning on her heel and walking away.

"She called you a freak," John said softly. He was overwhelmed by a sudden urge to hug his flatmate.

"It's not the first time and it won't be the last," said Sherlock, in an offhand fashion. "I've had worse. It's fine."

"It isn't _fine_, Sherlock. It's anything but _fine_." He put his hand on his shoulder, unaware of deciding to do so, staring up at the man. Their eyes locked together, an invisible force guiding them towards each others faces.

A loud banging noise startled them to their senses, the disjointed yells reverberating around the echoing corridor. Two policemen were struggling to escort a handcuffed young woman into an interview room, and were clearly undertaking an arduous task. The woman's face was flushed from her exertion, her endeavours- whilst enthusiastic- were futile.

"Back off," she growled, her face contorted in rage. "If I ever get out of here, I am taking you down, arsehole." She sunk her pearly white teeth into the hand of her guard, causing him to yell in pain.

John stood, fixated at the bizarre and, to his shame, _amusing_ spectacle, when he heard Sherlock say, "Anthea?"

He turned, to find Sherlock walking towards the young woman.

She snarled to see who had called her name, then smiled widely. "Mycroft!"

Sherlock stopped, frowning. "Anthea, that is not my name. Mycroft is dead, you know that." John shot him a startled look, but Sherlock said nothing. "Incidentally," Sherlock continued, smirking. "What name are you using today?"

"Antonia…" she said, sounding almost dreamlike. "But- This has to be you. I saw you just a couple of hours ago, you look-" Realisation seemed to dawn, her expression changing mid sentence. "Sherlock?"

"Yes!" he yelled, looking irritated. "What is it with people today?" He paused. "What did you say about Mycroft?"

"Mycroft, he's still alive!" she said desperately, still struggling with the officers. "I've been with him." She seemed to be losing the battle. Before the doors shut on her, she shouted, "Find him!"

* * *

They walked towards Lestrade's office (having asked a naïve young security guard for directions posed as couriers) in an odd silence. They waited patiently in the corridor outside what Lestrade liked to call him "control room". They perched awkwardly on the edge of a battered looking sofa, John sitting as far away as he could from Sherlock, Sherlock staring blankly into the distance, seemingly thinking.

"So…" said John.

"So?" said his flatmate, still not looking at him.

John cleared his throat. "I don't mean to pry," he said, not sure whether to be amused or alarmed. "But who was she, who's Mycroft, and what the hell is going on?"

Sherlock gave him a far away look. "It's a long story. You see-"

But they were interrupted by the arrival of Gregory Lestrade, a man who had held such a hold on his affections, followed by a girl he knew was called Molly. Even in his own head, he noted the past tense.

"There you are!" he said, relief clear in his voice. "I've been so worried about you! You were acting so weird earlier." For one, brief moment, John thought he was moving towards _him_. But instead, Lestrade threw his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, sobbing a little. "Why did you leave?"

Sherlock pushed him away, looking shocked. "What?"

Lestrade's eyes were red from crying. "You left. Why did you leave?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Greg, I haven't been with you. I've been with John!"

For the first time, Lestrade seemed to acknowledge his presence. "John," he said curtly, giving him a brief nod.

"Greg-" John began, but he was stifled by Lestrade's words.

"Please, John. I'm sorry, but I can't love you. I simply can't."

Tears came unexpectedly to his eyes. "Christ, Greg. Learn a little compassion, will you?"

"You're just not my type, alright?" he cried, his voice cracking slightly. "You're just too nice, John. Too much of a good person. I need someone who can be more than that."

"So what do you want me to be?" he muttered. "A complete bastard? Is that what floats your boat? You want a guy to be an arse to you, is that it? Well, believe me, I can do that to you if you want!" John found himself crying out loudly, voice shaking. "Come on Sherlock, let's go."

Sherlock rested his arm on his shoulder. "Are you ok?"

"Of course," John whispered, not meaning anything he said. "Just please, please come with me. I don't think I can be alone."

"Sure, if that's what you want," Sherlock replied.

Lestrade looked on with a fascinated horror. "You- and him? Sherlock, are you- Did you just use me?"

Sherlock glared at Lestrade. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Lestrade made an animalistic, guttural noise from the back of his throat. "You- We just slept together, and now you're _abandoning_ me to go and shag _him_?"

John stopped in his tracks. "W-What?"

"I- I didn't- John, I swear," Sherlock stammered, but suddenly everything began to make sense. Why Sherlock had been so vague about his visits here, why Sally had thought she had seen him here earlier- he was sleeping with Lestrade. This new found betrayal knocked the wind out of John, bitterness tasting acidic in his mouth.

"Sherlock- You love him, I understand. Well done." Even as he said them, the words stung, seeming to echo in the long corridor. "You got the man. I just hope you're happy together."

"John, I didn't-"

"It's fine!"

"It isn't _fine_, John! It's anything but _fine_!" The words seemed to burst from Sherlock, like he could barely contain them. "I haven't slept with him, and if I had, you shouldn't take it lying down. I've done nothing with him!"

"Don't lie!" John roared, anger welling up inside him. "I can't believe you did this to me! I thought we had something special!"

"John, we never even-" Lestrade began.

"Not you!" John spat. "Sherlock! I thought we were- I don't know. I thought we were _friends_!"

"We are!" Sherlock protested, grabbing John's shoulders roughly. "Christ, I wanted to be so much more than that to you! But here you were, so deep in love with Greg, and seeing you happy is so much better than seeing you alone. I would never wish that on you, John. I know what it's like to be alone. So please, I swear to you, I never did anything with him!"

John shook him off. "Please. Don't lie anymore. Give me that at least."

Obstructing Sherlock from barking a bitter retort, they were astonished to see Dimmock staggering into view, clutching his bleeding face.

"Christ, Dimmock, what happened to your nose?" Lestrade said, frustration still audible in his hoarse voice.

"Him!" He pointed a finger accusingly at Sherlock. "He hit me!"

They all stared in bewilderment at Sherlock, who himself looked as if he had wandered into a bad dream.

"This is insane!" he cried, running his hands through his hair. "What's going on?"

"I never did anything!" Dimmock continued. "It was all Sally's idea, this whole thing! But does she get slapped around? No! This is her fault!"

Sally entered from a room nearby. "I heard my name. What's all this about?"

Dimmock staggered over to her. "Sally! He hit me, you saw! You were there!"

Sally nodded gravely. "Hard, too. Though he hit Sherlock first, it has to be said."

Dimmock glared at her. "What was that for?"

"For being a dickhead. Now piss off, will you? I've got work to do." Dimmock stalked away, slamming the door at the other end of the corridor behind him. There was another awkward silence. Sherlock stood in a baffled stupor, eyes wide, his face pale. He was the only person more shocked than Molly was.

"I'm leaving," said John. "Goodbye, all of you."

And so, the story could have ended. In a crueler, less clichéd world, Sherlock would have moved out, and they all would have ended up alone. But clichés had to start somewhere. That's why they're called clichés- they're overdone, they're overused, and they happen quite a lot, actually. Some clichés are true, and sometimes it doesn't matter that they happen to everyone, it's still glorious.

Sherlock doesn't believe in fate, not a rational, logical person like him. He rejects authority in any sense, he's hardly going to react well to the notion of some higher power telling him what to do. Still, he reflected later, what had happened next had cast some doubts on his long held philosophy. It had felt father destined. And he would never admit it, not to the end of his days, but he was relieved when he was interrupted by a man, lurching towards them, before falling to his feet in front of Lestrade. He thanked whatever cosmic power had brought Mycroft Holmes to them, because he could begin to make sense of it all. Well, once he'd managed to comprehend quite what was happening to him, that is. But give him some credit, it'd been a long day, and an even longer couple of minutes.

* * *

Mycroft sobbed into Lestrade's trousers, his still weak legs having failed him at a vital moment. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Greg. I shouldn't have hit him. And I know you don't know who I am, but I really think I can make this work, if you just let me explain."

John gasped. "W-What?" The man was a duplicate of his flat mate, right down to the style of suit. Though, now he looked closer, there were a few differences. This new man was taller, in only by a little, and Sherlock was thinner. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

There was a loud crash, and Antonia burst in, skidding on the polished floor. Her hair flew out behind her, looking bedraggled, and her clothes were slightly torn. Clearly, she'd been in some sort of fight. "Mycroft!" she yelled, delighted.

"Antonia!" He stood up and hugged her tightly, beaming. "How did you get past the officers?"

"Baritsu," she smiled. "Just something I picked up. Very useful."

"I'll have to learn it," Sherlock said faintly, his considerable mind entering the equivalent of a screen freeze on a computer. Right now, he felt like he was running on a very temperamental Windows Vista.

Mycroft turned to see his brother, and smiled. "Sherlock. Have you missed me?"

"Please," Sherlock said, words dripping with disdain. "Oh, and you should learn to get your own style," his eyes flicked to the suit Mycroft was wearing. "Not mine."

"You're just jealous because it looks better on me," Mycroft smirked.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Will somebody _PLEASE_ tell me what the bloody hell is going on?" Lestrade screeched, perplexed.

"I'm sure my little brother has now figured it out," Mycroft drawled. "But I think I'll tell you." He took Lestrade's hand in his own. "I'm Sherlock's elder brother, Mycroft. I was the one who punched that _oaf_ you call a police officer, I was the one who slept with you." Before Lestrade could answer, he continued. "And I'm sorry, so sorry for not telling you who I was. But I was overwhelmed by all these new feelings, and-" He paused, searching for the right words. "It was so painful, you see. I- I've been alone a long time. And there you were, and you wanted _me_. And I just wanted to be wanted, for once."

"Is that what I am?" Lestrade choked. "Some plaything that you can mess around and fuck if you feel like it? I am not your option!"

Mycroft put his hand on Lestrade's face, his expression pained. "God. God no. If, if you really want to know, I- I had a look at your file earlier on my mobile. And our interests are pretty similar. I- Well, that is, I mean to say, I- I would like to see you again. Very much so, a little too much for me to feel comfortable. But you seem to have this quality that makes me fine with losing control. I know we slept together, and you should know that I am usually far more classy than that, but I was under the influence of far too many pills and they rather make me act on instinct."

Lestrade frowned. "You're quite the charmer. 'I only slept with you because I was drugged'- yeah, thanks. Real complimentary."

Mycroft looked appalled at the suggestion. "No! I just mean that, I would like the opportunity to take you out, and have a proper-" He blushed. "Relationship. If you hate me, that's fine, because I understand. But I think we could be good together, you know that? We could be _amazing_."

Lestrade wore an expression on his face that was remarkably similar to that of a mother who walks in on her son voluntarily cleaning his room. "This all feels a little too good to be true."

"Let me prove it to you," Mycroft urged.

"Greg," said John quietly to the stunned Lestrade. "I'd hold onto this one. He seems like a keeper." He turned to look at Sherlock. "I'm sorry. For what I said, I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's fine."

"It's not _fine_," John whispered, brushing back Sherlock's hair. "It's anything but _fine_. You said you were straight. You told me you were."

"I didn't want to lose you," he said, his voice somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

"An older woman," John said with a smile. "Very like me?"

"Something like that," Sherlock chuckled.

"Christ, this has been a weird day," Lestrade put his head in his hands. "I feel like I'm going mad." A thought suddenly occurred to him. "I forgot about Anderson. Molly," he said exhaustedly. "Could you fetch him for me?"

"Of course. But I don't think you'll like it."

As Molly left, Sherlock gave the exhausted Lestrade a brief grin. "I think," he said gently. "What we all need is a cup of tea."

* * *

Several cups of tea and a half eaten packet of biscuits later, and Sherlock finally asked the question he'd been longing to ask.

"What is this about Anderson?" said Sherlock, a note of disgust in his tone. "I want nothing to do with that Neanderthal."

"He," Lestrade blushed. "Earlier, he kind of- Well, he sort of made a move on me."

John gave the smallest of smiles, whilst Sherlock burst into hysterical laughter.

Mycroft bristled. "Did he now?"

"Restrain yourself, brother," said Sherlock teasingly. "Don't get jealous."

"I'm not!" he snapped, glaring at his younger brother.

"Like hell you are," Sherlock muttered.

They were interrupted by the arrival of Anderson, his face twisted in his rage and his hands bound together.

"I'm sorry it took so long," said Molly apologetically. "But he was, well, _difficult_."

Anderson dropped to his knees, barely containing himself. "You've wronged me, Lestrade. Don't think I won't be telling people about this, these mind games you've been playing with me!"

Sherlock smirked. "Anderson, what _are_ you wearing?" His eyes glimmered with delight at the sight of Anderson's jeans.

"Shut up, Sherlock." Anderson spat. "What would you know about anything?"

"I seem to know what decade it is. It's not the nineties, Anderson. Those clothes could fit an eight year old."

"Shut the fuck up, freak!" Anderson screamed, face reddening.

Sherlock found himself stood behind John, the doctor having moved at seemingly lightening fast speed. He clutched Anderson's collar and dragged him to his feet. "Never call him that. Never again. Understand?" He released him, leaving Anderson to stagger a little as he fell backwards, but he retained his balance.

Turning to Lestrade, he glowered. "You told me to act like this. I got your message. You can't pretend, I have evidence!" He pulled a phone out of his pocket. "See!" The text glimmered onscreen. "It's from you! You can't deny that!"

Lestrade leaned in and glanced at the number, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "It _is_ my number."

"See!" Anderson said, triumphant in his victory.

"I didn't send this text."

"I told you- What?" he said, his face blank. "You're lying. You sent this."

"No, no I didn't." Lestrade took the phone from him. "Someone else must have sent this, using my phone. Didn't that occur to you?"

"Hardly surprising from him," Sherlock muttered, but Anderson didn't hear.

He didn't seem able to understand what Lestrade was saying. "You told me to wear this _ridiculous _thing!" He gestured at the jeans he was wearing. "Do you have any idea how long this took to get on? Fucking _ages_! You told me to be rude to Dimmock, Molly and Sally! You told me to fucking _smile_!" He paced up and down, confusion and frustration fuelling his rage.

Lestrade tried to put his hand on Anderson's shoulder, but he grabbed his arm, his grip on Lestrade's wrist tightening. Mycroft stood up unexpectedly but did not move, giving Anderson a glare that he was so used to receiving from Sherlock.

"Unhand him," he said, a vicious edge to his voice.

Anderson did so, still angry, hand twisted in his hair. "You- I thought you-" Realization visibly dawned, his denial ebbing away.

"Whoever did this," Lestrade assured him. "Whoever did this to you, they'll be punished, I swear. I'm sure it was all meant as a joke, but you'll have input into their punishment, I promise you."

Molly gave a small cough. "Um," she began, a little nervously. "I know who did it."

Lestrade and Anderson looked eagerly at her. "Who?" they said in unison.

"Me," she said, with an embarrassed smile.

The incredulous silence was deafening.

"What?" said Lestrade, shocked. "Are you joking?"

Anderson growled. "You little bitch!"

"Hey!" said Lestrade warningly. "I won't have that language here, do you understand? Molly, are you serious?"

"Yes," she admitted. "It was Sally, Dimmock and I. We just got so sick of Anderson and his stupid, self righteous, arrogant behaviour. We just wanted to trick him. And it got a little out of hand, admittedly, we probably shouldn't have locked him in the interview room, but it was only meant as a joke. I texted Anderson with your phone, and told him to do all that stuff, and Sally and Dimmock helped me. Though to be honest," she crossed her arms defiantly. "I believe both parties are equally at fault, here. It doesn't excuse the fact that he tried to assault you, Lestrade, that was entirely his doing."

Lestrade paused. "Oh, God, Anderson. I'm sorry they've humiliated you like this, but it does seem like you were asking for it."

"I- Me?" He spluttered, indignation red in his face. "You blame _me_ for this? Well, I've had some shit jobs in my time, but this has to be the worst. I quit!"

"Anderson," Lestrade called, ignoring the gleeful laughter from Sherlock and Molly. "Come back!"

But Anderson did not listen, and slammed the office door loudly.

Everyone except Lestrade burst into hysterical laughter, but it was soon stopped by a stern look from the Detective Inspector. Even Sherlock shrunk under his gaze, an unusual amount of weight behind his expression. "He's been treated horribly, Molly," he said disapprovingly.

"I know. But he has to learn, surely?"

"I suppose," Lestrade sat down wearily. "But next time, try a bucket of water over a doorway. It's far easier to clean up."


	6. Epilogue

**_A prize of my love to anyone who can name which show I have oh-so-subtly *cough* referenced at some point in this chapter ;D_**

* * *

One of the things that Sherlock noticed first about people was that they are resistant to change. They cling to the normal, the everyday, and when something new arrives it can be threatening to them. People need _control_.Without it, people can wreak havoc in their little lives, causing destruction and anguish in their wake. Even Sherlock, in his own abnormal lifestyle, found his own rhythm, and was resistant to changing it. But every now and then, something comes along that is worth losing control for.

* * *

_The friends_

Molly grabbed the small shot glass between her sweaty fingers and brought it up to her eye level, shaking a little.

Sally smiled tipsily. "One, two, three!" They knocked back the drinks, wincing slightly before grinning.

"I am going to be SO hung-over tomorrow," said Molly, not seeming to care in the least.

"Pffft, Lestrade's going to be pissed anyway. Might as well get hammered. Two more!"

Molly groaned. "I've never drunk this much in my life."

Sally smiled. "Better get used to it, if you're going to be my mate."

Molly gave her a half pleased, half uncertain look. "We're friends, then?"

"I like to think so, yes. You hold your drink far better than Dimmock, it's an admirable quality."

Molly laughed, a little too loudly. "Thanks!"

"Don't mention it."

They picked up the drinks that had been placed in front of them.

Sally turned to Molly. "Again?"

Molly sighed, but beamed all the same. "One, two, three!"

It turned out that Molly _did_ hold her drink better than Dimmock, as well as Sally, which is how she found herself dragging Sally into a cab, holding back her hair as she threw up in the bathroom of her flat, and cleaning up after her. Molly was rather the cure to Sally's permanent hangover- she needed someone dependable, someone who'd look after her. And seeing Molly breeze into work without any trace of the side effects associated with heavy drinking made Sally rather determined to out do her. She always did love a competition.

* * *

_The colleagues_

Antonia sat on a low wall outside the police station, taking a long drag from her cigarette. She really must quit, she knew that. She really had to quit. She glanced at her hands, imaginary wrinkles forming there and tormenting her. She was getting old- sure, twenty nine wasn't _that_ bad in the grand scheme of things, but it didn't stop her feeling depressed about it. She was thirty in a couple of days, and she hadn't done anything with her personal life. So much for achievements.

A tall, dark haired man sat down next to her. "You really ought to quit, you know. It's a filthy habit."

"Says you," she said, giving Sherlock a glare. She wasn't sure whether it was meant in jest or not. "You of all people should not lecture me about addictions."

Sherlock smirked. "Nicotine patches, remember? I'm doing well. And I haven't touched any of _that_ in years." He looked up at the cloudy sky. "Tell me you're not going to sit out here all night, are you?"

"So what if I do?" she said defensively, stubbing out her cigarette aggressively. "Get back to your boyfriend."

Even in the dark, she could tell that Sherlock was pleased that she had referred to John as his boyfriend. "It's your birthday soon, isn't it?"

She blinked, confused. "I've never told you my birthday before."

"Call it a lucky guess," he said, his eyes glinting in the dark. "You're turning thirty, yes?"

She sighed. "Yes. And it's bloody annoying. What did you do for your thirtieth?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "If I remember rightly, I was pursuing a rogue, half-Swiss anaesthetist."

"What?"

"He'd stolen an ambulance. Drove it off a cliff in the end, but he survived. He was rather shocked you see, he'd slept with his mother by mistake- terrible story really, I won't go into it." He stood up. "You think he's forgotten."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, not looking at him.

"You think that my brother has forgotten your birthday. After all these years, you think he's forgotten."

Anthea thanked the heavens that it was dark, otherwise Sherlock would have seen her flush a vibrant scarlet. "He hasn't mentioned it. At all."

Sherlock sighed. "My brother is many things, but I'll give him one thing. He is loyal. He certainly won't have forgotten something this important."

"How do you know?" she asked, abandoning all pretences of dignity.

Sherlock smiled. "I'm a Holmes. It's what we do."

Anthea later learned that he had not forgotten, definitely not. She awoke to a birthday text from Mycroft that morning, and found a present on her kitchen table (she had no idea how it got there, and resolved to ask him about it when she next saw him). The box contained an incredibly expensive looking necklace, tickets to the theatre, and to her delight, something to wear there. She did not have much money, just enough to get her by, and Mycroft had exquisite taste. Much to her surprise, there was a bonus to all these gifts. At the theatre that evening, whilst wearing her new clothes and necklace, she found herself seated next to a rather attractive man, who was very witty and looking for a committed relationship. She had the feeling that Mycroft had had something to do with that, too. He really did have excellent taste.

* * *

_The lovers_

Lestrade sat in the large restaurant, feeling a tad out of place. He'd never entered a place like this outside of a case- a particularly gruesome triple murder, which had put him off expensive eateries for a while. He fidgeted with edge of his jacket, glancing across the table at Mycroft.

"Something wrong?" he said to Lestrade. Lestrade couldn't help but smile- he found his smooth tones impossibly endearing.

"Nothing, nothing, I- It's just a little out of my price range, is all…" He winced as he thought of his bank balance.

Mycroft took a sip of his wine. "My treat, I assure you. Nothing implied. Nothing is expected of you."

Lestrade crossed his arms defensively at the implication. "I didn't think there would be."

"Good. I'm glad we understand each other."

"Well. That's fine then." He certainly wouldn't be jumping into bed with Mycroft straight away. He was _not_ that kind of guy. Mycroft took another sip of his wine, saying nothing, simply staring at Lestrade. He realised that he _should_ find this creepy, but he could think of nothing except how beautiful his eyes looked in this light.

"So…" he searched for a topic of conversation. "We didn't really get chance to talk about you, um, last time." He blushed, and was outraged to find Mycroft laughing.

"You really are adorable sometimes, do you know that?" Mycroft smiled. "I mean, do you realise how cute you actually are?"

"I'm not cute!" Lestrade whined, his voice unexpectedly high, causing Mycroft to burst into a silent fit of hysterics. "I'm not!" Lestrade continued to protest. "I am a police officer! We're not cute- we're tough, cold alcoholics with family problems. We're anything but _cute_!"

"God, Greg," Mycroft panted, regaining a small amount of control. "I'm sorry, but you are. It's fine, honestly, it doesn't make you any less of a man."

"Yeah, well," Lestrade muttered, taking a sip of wine. "If I have to show you how much of a man I am, I will."

Mycroft choked on his wine, whilst Lestrade gasped, realising what he had said.

"You'll- Sorry?" Mycroft blushed, a little shocked.

Lestrade felt mortified, though he oddly aware of how he had managed to derail the cool, calm and collected Mycroft Holmes. Despite himself, he felt a surge of attraction towards the man. "I," he began, his voice deep. "I didn't mean that."

He thought he saw a flicker of disappointment cross Mycroft's face, but it was gone in the quickest of moments. "Of course."

Lestrade allowed his hand to brush over Mycroft's. "I don't _need_ to show you that I'm a man. You've seen before."

Mycroft's eyes widened a fraction, before replying. "I was drugged. My memory is…" He gave Lestrade the single most sexual look he had ever seen. "Hazy."

Lestrade smiled. "Maybe you need reminding?" He slid his foot beneath the table, teasing at Mycroft's ankles.

Mycroft jolted a little. "Perhaps. If you're OK with reminding me, that is?"

Lestrade paused. "Yes. I'm completely OK with that. In fact," he stood up, and whispered slowly into Mycroft's ear. "I don't think it can wait, do you?"

Mycroft had never left a restaurant without paying before, and he never would again, but there was simply not enough time to wait for the bill. God forbid he should make Lestrade feel inadequate about his masculinity for too long. Luckily, Lestrade proved this to him later that night. Multiple times.

* * *

_The partners_

Sherlock hung up his coat, wet from the rain, John walking up the stairs a little ahead of him. Sherlock wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers- quite why he was nervous, he had no idea. He took the stairs slowly, reaching the top just quickly enough to see John enter the living room. Sherlock sat down on the sofa, too tense to relax, watching John make himself a cup of tea.

"You never really specified what you did with Greg," John called to him, facing away, still fiddling with the kettle.

"I," said Sherlock, his voice unexpectedly hoarse. "I solve the cases that he can't."

"Sounds exciting."

"It is, sometimes. When the case is interesting. I can't bear the dull ones. You could always come along, if you liked?" What was with all this small talk? They needed to discuss what had happened. Maybe John wanted to forget about it?

"That would be good. I suspect you need a doctor around sometimes." John sat down next to him, passing him his tea. They were achingly close to each other. "So you, er, you meet a lot of people in your line of work, then?"

"Yeah, sometimes. Most of them are dead, to be fair."

John laughed, his voice a little hesitant. "Do you, um, I- Do you ever _date_ them?"

Sherlock stared at John incredulously. "No."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Oh…" John trailed off. "Well, er, that's fine. I was, er, just wondering." He stood up. "Night, then."

He was halfway to the door before Sherlock realized what John had been asking. "John!" he yelled unexpectedly, stopping him in his tracks. "I- I'd date if I ever found someone I actually- someone I really…"

They stood at opposite sides of the room, staring each other down, neither sure what they were going to say. There seemed to be some sort of vacuum between them- they seemed to be daring each other to break the silence.

Simultaneously, they moved towards each other, meeting half way. Sherlock's lips crashed against John's desperately, awkwardly, wonderfully, eyes shut tightly in case it was a dream. The smell of wet wool mingled with John's skin and sweat, creating a cassolette of glorious scents he never imagined could be so precious. He tasted of tea and toothpaste, and his hand was entangled in Sherlock's thick hair.

They broke apart, panting a little, simply staring.

"I might finish my tea in front of the telly," said John quietly. "We could watch a film, if you like."

Sherlock smiled. "I'd like that."

They picked a DVD out of a pile gathering in the corner of the flat (a period drama, nothing that would captivate them for too long) and sat together, gradually inching closer to each other as it progressed, eventually culminating in John resting his head on Sherlock's chest.

A little way through, Sherlock turned to the army doctor. "John?"

"Yes?" he said sleepily.

"What are we?"

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock paused. "Friends? Colleagues? Lovers?"

John thought for a moment. "Partners."

And gradually, they fell asleep, entwined in an embrace that not even the storm outside 221B could end.

When Harry found them the next morning they were still on the sofa, John's lips pressed against Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's long arms wrapped around John's chest. She smiled widely to herself- Mrs Hudson owed her £50.

* * *

**_So that's it! Over! Thank you to everyone who's read/reviewed this fic, I've enjoyed writing a lot, even if I have had to analyse it to death in my English classes. I might do another one of this style, probably not Shakespeare this time, I'm thinking maybe Pride and Prejudice *listens for fangirl screams from OryonUK* _**

**_Thanks again!_**


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